


Into Mine House

by OldShrewsburyian



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Biblical Scripture References (Abrahamic Religions), Canon Compliant, Catholic Character, Episode Tag, Female Friendship, Feminist Themes, Gen, Granada Holmes canon, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, John Watson is a Good Doctor, POV Female Character, POV Third Person, Roman Catholicism, Story: The Adventure of the Crooked Man, Victorian, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 19:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19874974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OldShrewsburyian/pseuds/OldShrewsburyian
Summary: The Catholicism of Nancy Barclay belongs to Granada Holmes, rather than canon, as does the character of Major Murphy as written. I've had this written for several years, hoping that the remainder of a story might come to join it. Since it hasn't, I'm posting it as-is. I still hope to find how to write the rest of Nancy Devoy Barclay's story someday.





	Into Mine House

_And Uriah said unto David, The ark, and Israel, and Judah, abide in tents; and my lord Joab, and the servants of my lord, are encamped in the open fields; shall I then go into mine house, to eat and to drink, and to lie with my wife? as thou livest, and as thy soul liveth, I will not do this thing. —2 Samuel 11:11_

_There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile,_  
_He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile;_  
_He bought a crooked cat which caught a crooked mouse,_  
_And they all lived together in a little crooked house. —Mother Goose_

When the doctors came, she saw Annie Morrison depart almost with relief. Annie would make a good confidante, and she might have to become one again, but not yet — not yet. Nancy Barclay submitted to examination, and let her mind drift. “Thy slain men,” wrote the prophet Isaiah, “are not slain with the sword, nor dead in battle. For it is a day of trouble, and of treading down, and of perplexity by the Lord GOD of hosts in the valley of vision, breaking down the walls…”

“Mrs. Barclay?” She started. “Are you quite all right?” The doctor with his lined face spoke softly, and without impatience; for this she was grateful. She nodded; no more seemed to be expected of her. “You must take care to get your strength up. Think about going away, if you like — but you’ve nothing to worry about now, not on your own account.” He made a slight movement, as though he had thought of pressing her hand, and thought better of it. He looked also as though he might speak, but he did not, merely making the smallest of bows and abandoning her to her thoughts.

 _He will surely violently turn and toss thee like a ball into a large country…_ She tried to shape her thoughts around prayer. 

Her next visitor was a military man. She sat up straighter as he approached, her fingers tightening on her rosary. 

“Mrs. Barclay.” He had always been kind to her, and he was kind now. His voice was soft, and his eyes held the same undemanding devotion that they always had.

“Major Murphy.”

He dropped his eyes to his hands, to the perfectly aligned pair of gloves resting on one thigh. “I wanted to tell you — they’ve had the inquest.” He smiled, disarmingly. “The nurses wouldn’t want me to be telling you, I’m thinking.”

“Thank you for coming,” she said, and told herself that the trembling of her voice would be thought a thing perfectly natural, entirely to be expected. “I will be easier for knowing.”

Major Murphy ran a hand over his mustache. “They say it was an apoplexy, Nancy — that is, that it was entirely unavoidable, under… under the circumstances.”

“Under the circumstances.”

The old soldier colored visibly. “Given his way of life,” he said. “Port after dinner and so on… excitable temper… I’m terribly sorry.”

She closed her eyes, told herself again that it was all right, that it was all right, that Major Murphy was not waiting to catch her out in anything, to seize on some detail of her behavior as proof of wrongdoing. 

“I am sorry,” said Major Murphy again, “and sorry to have to be the bearer of such news.” She told herself that she should bestir herself at least to meet his eyes, to thank him for his news and his kindness. She heard a shifting in his chair, and inferred that he was refraining from reaching for her hand. She found the unease of the polished officer strangely touching, and yet somehow it seemed so difficult to think of how to respond to him.

“I thought,” said Major Murphy, “that it might be… better to hear it from a friend, though of course nothing could make it news easy to hear.”

“No,” said Nancy, and then rallied herself. “That is, yes: it is very good of you, Major Murphy.” She forced herself to open her eyes, to face him. “I am sorry not to be able to…” She forced a smile; a fluttering of her hands finished her apologies for her. “I know there will be a thousand things for you to do, and it was generous of you to take on this visit which is only kindness, and not your duty. I know the regiment could not be entrusted to better hands.”

He was gracious in accepting his dismissal; he rose, and bowed to her from the waist. She gave him her hand, for all the world as though he had been her guest, and they stood under the porte-cochère at Lachine.

The next person to approach her was another straight-backed man, and she found herself shrinking back against her pillows at his approach.

“Dr. John H. Watson,” said the dapper apparition, when he had reached her bedside.

“Oh.” It was barely more than a breath. “Yes… forgive me, doctor. I took you for a regimental man.” Obediently she held up her hand for the taking of her pulse.

“Ah,” said the elegant doctor. “Yes, I see. Misapprehension, I’m afraid. 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, but, ah, I’m in civilian life now.” Manifestly somewhat embarrassed, he drew a handkerchief from his sleeve, and she smiled to see it. He cleared his throat. “I’ve come to, ah, explain matters. Won’t stay long. But I thought you might hear — in due course — that Major Murphy had called in my friend, Sherlock Holmes, to investigate the circumstances of your husband’s death.”

The beads of her rosary bit into the skin of her palms. “Yes?” Her own voice sounded tight and unsteady in her ears, perilously close to hysteria. 

“Yes. I persuaded him to come. But you must know, Mrs. Barclay, that he needed no persuasion to depart again. We return to London this evening.”

“Yes.” She could manage no more.

“I must be explaining myself very badly, Mrs. Barclay, but believe me when I say that I come only to offer such reassurance as I can. Holmes has spoken with… with Corporal Wood. He knows all; he will say nothing.”

“Thank God,” she breathed; “oh, thank God.”

The doctor returned his handkerchief to his sleeve. “For my own part,” said he, “I know that Corporal Wood is a proud man, but if there is anything that he — that either of you — needs…” He placed a card on the bedside table, annotated in a careful script. “I hope you will feel free to consult me, if — ” he coughed slightly — “if you prefer to see a London physician.”

“Yes.” She suddenly found herself humiliatingly close to tears. “It is… very good of you to come, Dr. Watson. I have not yet had leisure to _think_ , but I am sure that when I do… I am grateful to be assured of your friend’s sympathies, and your own.”

The trim doctor, who still held himself like a soldier, rose, and bowed slightly. “You will always have them, Mrs. Barclay,” said he, and left on the word, before she had recovered from her astonishment.

**Author's Note:**

> The Catholicism of Nancy Barclay belongs to Granada Holmes, rather than canon, as does the character of Major Murphy as written. I've had this written for several years, hoping that the remainder of a story might come to join it. Since it hasn't, I'm posting it as-is. I still hope to find how to write the rest of Nancy Devoy Barclay's story someday.


End file.
